


Purim With the Kanes

by Molly_Hats



Category: Batman (Comics), Batwoman (Comic), Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Based on an offhand tumblr headcanon that Claire is Jewish, Bette Kane's double entendres stop for no man, Canon Jewish Character, Fluff, Gen, Happy Purim, I've been sitting on this awhile guys, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jewish Holidays, Purim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 07:05:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly_Hats/pseuds/Molly_Hats
Summary: Bette invites Claire to celebrate Purim with her.  Featuring lonely upper class girls, grieving, and bad decisions made while stone cold sober.





	Purim With the Kanes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’m not Jewish. I tried to research this as thoroughly as I could, but don’t hesitate to call me the f out on anything I screwed up.

Claire remembered Purim as kids, her and Hank trying to find the best ways to drown out the sound of Haman’s name for days beforehand, building custom noisemakers while their parents laughed and fled to other rooms, coming out only occasionally to check on them.

She remembered Mother’s Hamantaschen, one of the few dishes she didn’t leave to Mrs. Macready. She remembered folding them with Mother and sometimes Hank, although he was usually exiled from the kitchen for sneaking bites from the incomplete cookies. She remembered Mother telling her the ways to fold, the way she and Mother differed ever so slightly—Mom folded clockwise, Claire counterclockwise, but neither of them left the third flap unpinned because then it would come undone and make a mess (a simple mistake neither of them would make twice, as Mother told her while wiping her tears with a hand towel. She was 7, then, and she’d wanted so badly for everything to be perfect because she was finally old enough to fold them with Mother). 

She remembered the lively parties between family and some friends, Mother sending her and Hank to bed while the grown ups tried to figure out how much alcohol one must consume to hear no difference between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordecai,” or at least see no difference between Lady Gaga and cousin Willy in a wig and stuffed dress. She and Hank would watch from the top of the stairs, giggling to each other in their pajamas and bare feet. Grown ups were sillier than kids!

She remembered the little pageants they’d performed before the real partying started, Hank and herself cycling through all the parts: putting crowns and other props on and taking them off to switch roles, Hank dramatically swishing the black cape on his costume whenever he was Haman, Claire stuttering through her long, half-memorized monologues as Queen Esther with some whispered prompting.

She remembered planning their costumes with Hank, refusing their parents’ offers of store-bought or even custom ones. Hank labored over his Batman costume for weeks, teaching himself how to sew on countless prototypes. He told her about masks and Purim and Batman, and being a better person when freed by an alter ego. She went as girl-Robin. (When the blonde took over as Robin later, Hank joked she’d stolen the costume from Claire. The similarity was uncanny.)

She remembered Purim, and she remembered Hank and Mother and Father, and the idea of Purim without them seemed as strange and remote as the idea that she’d never see them again.

Claire stared off into the distance, legs crossed, chin on her hands, slowly sinking into the probably unsafely soft bed. The view from her window was nicer than the one back home, rolling hills and stereotypical “rich estate” for a good distance. 

“Claire?” A knocking on the door. 

Claire turned, risking being swallowed by the quicksand like mattress. “Come on in.”

A tall woman stood in the doorway. She looked like she was in her late teens or early twenties, although Claire had never been the best at estimating age (it had been an issue in her studies with Hank). Her curly hair was tied back in a long blonde ponytail, and she was pale—not as pale as Kate, but close. “Hi, Claire. You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Bette Kane. My family spent Purim with your family a couple times.”

“Right.” Claire tried to remember. Her face suddenly reddened. 

Bette laughed. “Yeah, we fought over who got to be Esther,” she said. “It was my fault, I was old enough to know better.”

“Mom had to whisper all my lines to me and I still couldn’t say them right,” Claire said. “You were right.”

“I was still a little bitch,” Bette bluntly said with a smile. She went to sit on the edge of the bed, then leapt up like a snake had bitten her when it sank under her weight. “I don’t think beds are supposed to do that.”

Claire admitted. “Mr. Wayne has been so nice to me, it seemed rude to complain.”

“You’re gonna mess up your back,” Bette warned. “Take it from somebody who has done a lot of recovering, you want somewhere good to do it.” Bette tentatively pushed down with her index finger, yanking it away quickly. “Besides, I’m worried you’re gonna suffocate. If you don’t want to, I can. He’s my cousin. Kinda. Second cousin technically, I think. Or is it first cousin once removed?”

Claire watched Bette, trying to figure out what exactly to say to politely express that she wanted to be alone. 

Bette finally trailed off in her discussion of family descriptions and sat down on the bed without comment. “Uh oh. I know that look. You were planning on brooding, weren’t you?” 

“I don’t ‘brood.’ That’s a guy thing.”

“I’ve seen enough brooding to know it’s gender neutral.” Bette lay back, flopping her arms out so that one rested by Claire’s legs, the other gripping the bedpost. “Anyway. I didn’t come over to critique your mattress and choice of activities you do on it.”

“Might want to rethink that—“

“My double entendres are always intentional and rarely appropriate,” Bette said with a wink. 

“What did you come over for, then?” Claire asked, turning her head to look down into Bette’s face, curious despite herself. 

“To invite you to celebrate Purim with my family. It’s not very homey and it’s pretty formal until everybody gets roaring drunk, but we can sneak out and I can teach you some moves Kate taught me, or we could talk or something.”

“I don’t...I don’t know.”

“You have something else planned? Some feminine brooding?”

“I don’t know how I can celebrate it. Without them.” She hadn’t planned on saying it, but it slipped out, even though her tongue swelled and her voice cracked and her lungs didn’t work right and the world went swimmy and she shouldn’t have been able to say anything, logically, with so many obstacles. 

In moments, Bette was beside her and upright, wrapping her arms around the younger girl. She didn’t speak for several moments, contemplating what to say, gently running her hand across Claire’s hair. It had a nice texture--spiky but fuzzy. 

“Hey, it’s okay, no pressure. In honesty, it’s pretty boring, but I promised my mom I’d spend it with her this year instead of Uncle Jake and Aunt Cathy. I thought we could maybe sneak away and I could teach you some moves Batwoman taught me. Celebrate the holiday by learning how to kick ass.”

“I don’t...I can’t…”

“‘S Okay. It’s okay, Claire.” Bette considered leaving it there, unsure of herself, but plunged ahead, “nobody can put aside grief, really. It’s always with you. Hank is always with you, and you stay alive for him but for yourself, too.” Bette was rambling now, her pep talk deteriorating into some probably useless personal blather she can’t even remember a few moments later. Kathy had been better. But Claire seemed comforted.

“You’re scared and you’re sad, but you’re not stuck there. You always have a chance to be brave, to be happy. And the tragedy doesn’t negate that. It just makes the good parts stand out. And you don’t let that darkness spread to everywhere else. You keep it where it belongs, you don’t let it take over your life.”

She paused a moment, deliberating, and said, “that’s how you get Batman.”

Claire gasped an incredulous laugh through the tears, more from surprise and a need to laugh than genuine mirth. It was enough for Bette, who began tracing circles on Claire’s back with her fingertips like Aunt Kathy used to. 

“Plus, I’ll help you with your costume,” she offered. 

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” Bette didn’t let go, unsure whether Claire wanted her to. She’d never had siblings, never really been close to anybody but Kathy, she didn’t know if this was normal.

“Thanks,” Claire said, her head buried in Bette’s shoulder. Bette hoped the deodorant was holding up.

“Any time, okay? I’m at Uncle Jake’s most of the time, and I have--” she rummaged in her pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and quickly scribbled some numbers on it “--my phone with me most of the time. Feel free to call whenever if you want to talk or just hang out.”

“I will.”

Alfred found them asleep and cuddling about an hour later. He smoothed out a wrinkle that might have obstructed Claire’s ability to breathe, made note of the state of the bed, and left. 

:::

The party was intimidating, more like the handful of Wayne business galas Claire had been to than her family celebrations (which, while big, were full of friends and family). She pushed her purple cape out of the way. Capes were very, very stupid, especially for people who couldn’t fly. She’d tell Stephanie that when she returned the costume.

Bette was waiting for her, smiling and waving, hair carefully curled and pulled out of her face. A red and black mask with pointy ends covered most of her face, and she wore a red and gold costume which Claire dimly recognized from hours of study as that of the original Batwoman.

“Claire! So glad you could make it!” Bette said, taking the stairs at a speed that should be impossible on heels. She took Claire’s arm, subtly brushed the cape out of tripping range, and helped Claire down the stairs. 

“Who’s this, Bette?” A woman asked, suddenly appearing in their path. She was tall, imposing, brunette, and wearing a dress which somehow managed to be age appropriate and yet also have an extremely noticeable plunging neckline. Claire struggled to figure out exactly what she was supposed to be, staring at her generic black carnival mask until it became awkward.

“Mother, this is Claire Clover. Her parents—“

The stern look vanished and the woman’s face softened into a look of grief. “You poor girl. I’m so sorry,” she said, pressing Claire into a hug. Claire didn’t struggle, and mercifully, the hug was over quickly and with a minimum of squeezing. “If there’s anything we can do—“

“Mother,” Bette almost whined.

“Alright, alright!” Mrs. Kane laughed without much heart. “Try to enjoy yourselves. It is Purim, after all!”

“We will,” Bette said in exasperation. “Come on, Claire.” She seized Claire’s hand and practically dragged her away towards the snack table. Bette delicately lifted a cookie from the huge platter of Hamantaschen and took a small bite, closing her eyes in an exaggerated look of pleasure. Claire laughed and picked up her own cookie.

Suddenly, with a twinkle of mischief, Bette deftly scooped up a napkin and a handful of Hamantaschen and stuffed the entire thing into one of the pouches of Claire’s utility belt. Claire snorted in surprise, nearly inhaling her half eaten cookie, as Bette put a finger to her lips and held out a hand, inviting Claire to follow her.

Somewhat dramatically, Claire placed her hand in Bette’s, and they were off and running, out of the ballroom, down the stairs, Bette’s high heeled boots clacking deliciously on the smooth stone floor as they leapt onto the grounds.

They finally came to a rest on the bank of a possibly artificial brook, limbs splayed out and costumes covered in crumbs. Claire was licking scraps off of the napkin. 

“This is what partying is all about,” Bette declared, unzipping and slipping off her red boots. She swung her feet into the stream and leaned back, her messy blonde hair shining in the moonlight. “Who needs alcohol?”

Claire followed suit, but shivered in the chilly water and quickly whipped her feet back out. “What the heck?” she asked, shoving her freezing feet back into her boots.

“I don’t need alcohol to make stupid decisions,” Bette declared proudly, smirking up at Claire. Without thinking, Claire wiped a crumb off of Bette’s nose.

Bette laughed and scooped with her tongue around her mouth, just in case she had anything else stuck there. 

Claire sat for a few moments, watching Bette’s pale feet bob in the water. After awhile, she asked, “Why’d you decide to be a hero?”

“It was for the rush, I guess. To be honest, I kinda had a crush on Robin.”

“Which one?”

Bette laughed. “I don’t know. I got over it before I learned any secret IDs, and I wasn’t too eager to figure out which one I should be awkward around.”

“Fair.”

“Speaking of crushing on bat boys…” Bette said, voice creeping high with mischief. “Have you hung out with Duke lately?”

“Uh…” Claire brought her legs up to clutch them to her chest, wrapping her cape around herself for warmth. She didn’t have to see Bette to know she was smirking.

“I won’t pressure you,” Bette said. “Besides, it’s only a matter of time before somebody figures out a way to trap you two in a closet until you confess your undying love. Or at least desire to make out.”

“What?”

Bette winked at her, her pale skin nearly glowing in the light of the moon. Her cheek tucked up exaggeratedly to help the wink along, giving her a kind of smirk. “Ask Nightwing about the crazy times back at Gotham A. Specifically a certain birthday party I may have crashed with Artemis.”

“I’m scared,” Claire said, and it was so nice for the words to roll out, a joke again, like she used to do.

“You should be,” Bette grinned. She pulled her feet out of the creek and started retying her boots. “Anyway, I’ve got a lair under the guest house. Want to retire to go learn some Kane-original backflip kick things? I hate to admit it, but I’m getting cold out here. ”

“It’s New Jersey, in February, and you stuck your feet in a creek,” Claire said bluntly. “I’d be more worried if you weren’t cold.”

“Promise not to tell Batwoman?” Bette pleaded with a grin.

Claire smiled in spite of herself. “I promise.”


End file.
